


Except Tim

by coyote_nebula



Series: Minefield [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, And by strays I mean kids, Being Lost, Bruce Wayne collects strays and that's how he likes it, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Camping, Childhood Trauma, Dogs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Rescue, Sad dog story, Self-Esteem Issues, Tim Drake Has a Bad Time, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Tim's parents are dead, Wilderness Survival, jason is still dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27916819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyote_nebula/pseuds/coyote_nebula
Summary: There was one thing this green hellscape had in common with Gotham, and that was that the dry wind was chapping thefrickout of his lips.--Tim just wants to have a good definitely-not-camping-but-instead-very-important-wilderness-survival-training trip with Bruce. It's not off to a great start.
Relationships: Jack Drake & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: Minefield [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044210
Comments: 34
Kudos: 331





	Except Tim

**Author's Note:**

> Not all who wander are lost.  
> Except Tim.  
> Tim is lost as shit.  
> Tim has hypothermia.
> 
> @jakelikesonions

“B? I give, alright?”

The roar of millions of green needles washed overhead in waves, an echoing chorus of _you’re nowhere_ rinsing over Tim’s rocky bluff and down into the valleys. _You’re nowhere,_ they whispered. _And you’re alone._

The crisp breeze turned biting as it crawled under Tim’s shirt collar. He turned a slow circle, eyes raking the waving pine boughs. Their windy white noise only emphasized the forest’s vacuum of humanity. Even the quietest nights in Gotham were full of sound-- distant car alarms, slamming doors, hissing pipes. Sound that snarked, _hey, watch where you’re going,_ or snarled _mind your own business._ It was a Robin’s job to keep apprised of the city’s muttering at all times. And sometimes, it was a lonely mutter.

But it never said, _you’re alone._

Tim licked his lips. There was one thing this green hellscape had in common with Gotham, and that was that the dry wind was chapping the _frick_ out of his lips.

“I am standing by to receive your Teachable Moment lecture,” he called, a little louder. “Tell me where I screwed up, I’m ready.” He pushed hair out of his eyes with numbed fingers to squint uselessly into the darkening foliage.

A frantic breath shoved at his ribs. Another was brought under control, channelled into cold focus. Alright. Okay, he didn’t really _think_ he was on his own, before, but he was, and that was no big deal. He was good on his own. Situation normal.

He peered downslope, back in the direction he’d come from. It was his best option. Backtracking would at least bring him into vaguely familiar territory. But the opposite slope faced a plume of smoke he really, _really_ hoped was closer than it looked, because he was feeling suddenly very stupid for following Bruce out here in nothing but a button-up and jeans.

An icy gust stabbed his eardrum, and he shook his head with a hunching shiver. Smoke side it was, then. He’d been under the impression that the beckoning tilt of the head, the gruff _“Tim,”_ meant nothing more than a momentary digression from his research and that he’d return to the cabin after absorbing whatever woodland tidbit Bruce meant to dispense. It was their home base prior to the Bat-sanctioned round of wilderness survival training (Bruce declined to recognize any allusions to a ‘camping trip’ with more than a grunt). They stepped out of the door without any equipment, without so much as a coat.

So when Bruce nodded for Tim to follow into the treeline, he went obediently and without any notion that they’d be gone more than a few minutes.

A rock rolled out from under his foot, skittering away as he caught himself with a hand. He swallowed, wishing for a light. It was dim down here. He didn’t even have his fricking _phone_ flashlight _,_ because he was supposed to be _right back,_ Bruce, _what the hell?_

He scrambled a little faster. A shock of cold hit the side of his nose like a mosquito, and he swiped at it. A snowflake. “Are you serious,” he mumbled.

Was this a test? It didn’t seem like Bruce’s-- _Batman’s--_ style to throw his student in the deep end, grumble _“Swim,”_ and just _walk away,_ but Tim never stopped feeling new at being Robin and maybe it actually was? Surveilling Batman and Robin had familiarized him with their preferred modus operandi, but actually _being_ Robin turned out to reveal lots of unexpected training exercises that sometimes blindsided him with lessons that had an obvious answer and an obscure answer, and guess which one was the right one?

The bottom of the valley, or ravine, or, you know what, geoformation terms weren’t really his strong suit, _the bottom of the hill--_ There was a wide stream nestled there. He ruffled snow out of his hair in disgust. They’d crossed a stream on the way out via a fallen log earlier, this stream, he thought. A bit further down. This was a less convenient crossing but he was fricking _Robin,_ okay, he wasn’t about to get his feet wet when there were perfectly good acrobatic handholds arching over the burbling water.

What he intended was to spring from the conveniently located boulder, latch onto a straight and smooth branch and swing into a simple landing on the other side. Nothing fancy. He _was_ Robin, but he wasn’t a Flying Grayson, and quadruple backflips were out of his league.

He _was_ Robin, but he was a Robin out of his element.

His yelp of surprise _almost_ covered the smart _crack_ of the branch as it took his weight and unceremoniously rejected it, just like how the freezing _splash_ of water that followed _almost_ covered his shuddering gasp of shock. He flew out of the water like a cat from a bathtub.

Heaving on the bank, stinging from the touch of his icewater-soaked clothes and the rocky landing, he reflexively cast around because if Bruce was going to pick a moment to suddenly show up, it would be just in time to see Tim commit this gloriously stupid wipeout. It was a weird mix of relief and disappointment to find the forest as still as before.

They probably hadn’t gone far, honestly, but the terrain was tricky and Tim’s mind was tired after the long drive out of the city, the sleepless night before, and the one before that. This trip had been planned for weeks. Which gave him plenty of time to worry that it would get cancelled, all the way until they rolled up to the front door of the cabin.

Content that his one-on-one time was as secure as it was going to get, he was watching the heels of Bruce’s fancy hiking boots navigate a steep rise and paying little attention to the route.

At a seemingly arbitrary point in the middle of a hill, Bruce stopped him with a raised hand. “Wait until I call you.” He marched on, disappearing into the brush.

Tim waited. For a long time, actually. Long enough for cold to seep into the growing pains of his legs, stiffen his recently sprained wrist. Long enough that he started to wonder if Bruce meant “I’ll call your cell,” which Tim had left charging next to his laptop. Did they even have service out here?

The first real spike of anxiety hit him when he realized that one, he’d been caught unprepared and was sure to get a lecture on it, two, he was messing up whatever Bruce had planned, and three, _he had no clue where he was._

The next spike of anxiety came when he reluctantly broke position to trace Bruce’s path to the crest of the ridge, hoping to see him on the other side, waiting patiently to catch Tim at ignoring an order like a dog trainer testing the quality of a _stay._

But when he topped the ridge where Bruce disappeared, he didn’t see anything. He even looked up, because no one ever looks up but a Bat, and saw nothing there either.

Was he supposed to… what was he supposed to do?

_Stay until I call you._

But…

Through the trees, he could see a higher vantage point. He gravitated towards it. From there, he should be able to reassure himself of Bruce’s location, and maybe sneak back without getting caught. He wasn’t worried for himself yet. But if something had happened to Bruce…

Perched on the bluff, it sank in that he didn’t know where Bruce was, he didn’t know where _he_ was, the trees were creepily whispering _you’re alone_ and, he panicked, a little bit. Just a little. And then he decided to follow the smoke. 

Now he was wet, even though he’d shaken the worst of it off, and his teeth chattered too much to mumble to himself anymore. Snow was falling in earnest now, because of course it was. He rubbed his clammy arms and realized that the stiff crust forming on his damp shirt was _ice,_ and _frick,_ if this was a wilderness survival pre-quiz he was failing _miserably._

 _It looks like Bambi out here,_ he thought, lifting his eyes from his feet to the snow haze. After his mom…

He bit his lip between trembling teeth. Okay. Better to think about something else. But his mind wandered away from his miserable trudging to the night he’d first seen that movie.

His parents were home, and they popped popcorn and they watched Bambi together, because it was his mom’s favorite Disney movie and… there was a dog, outside.

Tim blinked snow out of his eyes. Was he even going the right way anymore? But he couldn’t stop here, so he didn’t.

The dog. A stray that had let little Tim carefully stroke her head before his frantic mother yanked him away, scolding him. But the dog hung around, and as Bambi hung his head, trailed listlessly after his father, the dog was barking. 

Jack Drake muttered under his breath. Tim didn’t catch the words, but the more barking the more muttering and when the end credits rolled, Jack stood and grabbed his keys from the coffee table with a loud scrape. “Tim. Come on.”

When they stepped out into the night, the dog was still there. She was black with a white chest, and she recoiled from Jack.

“Call the mutt, Tim. We’re going for a ride.”

The dog didn’t like Jack, but she wagged her tail for Tim and followed him happily into the backseat of one of His dad’s cheaper cars, the Cadillac affectionately referred to as ‘the beater.’

“Where we going?” Tim asked, dodging slobbery dog kisses and wondering excitedly what adventure could await him with his dad and his new furry friend.

“Just a moonlight tour, Tim.”

And that was fine, too. He was happy to be allowed to play with the dog, to have her big brown eyes gratefully fix on him like he was the best person she’d ever met, and maybe he was. Friends weren’t easy to make. She warmed her cold paws in his lap, and he buried his face in her neck.

Maybe she could stay. Even if his parents had to go away again, she and him could keep each other company.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.

When the car stopped, Tim finally took note of where they were, which was to say, pretty much nowhere at all. It had started snowing at some point. For a moment he was mesmerized, because with the trees and the snow, it looked just like Bambi.

——

A mouth full of leaf-bespeckled snow brought Tim back to the present, and the belated observation that he’d tripped in the dark. He spit and then sighed. If he was lost before, he was well and truly adrift now. Sitting tight sounded like a good and bad idea all at once, and he was too tired to parse out the pros and cons. He pillowed his head on his arms.

——

When the car stopped, Jack Drake twisted to look in the backseat. “Let’s stretch our legs a minute.”

Tim hopped out, followed by the dog. They stood together on the dark country road. It was a good opportunity to catch snowflakes on his tongue until he shivered and yawned all at once.

Jack put a hand on his shoulder, guided him back to the warm car. “Freezing out here,” he muttered, shutting Tim in and collapsing back in the driver’s seat.

Tim frowned, tugging the door handle. It was locked. “Dad, wait. The dog—“

“Is staying here,” said Jack.

Through the glass, Tim could see her wagging tail slowly go still as Jack put the car in drive and turned around.

Frantic, he jerked the door latch ineffectually. “It’s— it’s cold,” he stuttered. “Dad, no!”

“Stop that, Tim,” he snapped. “It’s a dog. It’s got fur.”

Horrified, Tim could only watch her shrink into the distance. She never moved, just stood there. Waiting.

Waiting for them to come back.

——

Tim awoke to blinding whiteness.

He was sitting up, backed by something firm. Tugging and pulling was bringing him back to awareness. His shirt— he blinked. Huge hands were working the buttons loose.

He blinked up. Bruce had a penlight between his teeth, glaring over Tim’s shoulder in concentration as he quickly unfastened the shirt. The iced-over fabric crackled as he worked Tim’s arms out of it, his bare skin too numb to register the cold air.

Moments later he was swamped in a gargantuan, Bruce-sized coat. It was unnaturally warm. Hot. _Stifling._

 _“B,”_ he whined, but Bruce was zipping it up anyway. A few disorienting movements later Tim was curled against the broad chest and they were on the move.

His skin prickled at the burning heat of the coat. It was awful, a summer sun he couldn’t even sweat under. He shifted and groaned.

“It’s heated. You’ll be okay,” Bruce said.

Heated. Of course, because where _overprepared_ and _obscenely rich_ overlapped, you had things like heated coats. No one would even think it was weird. Rich people had things like that, _just because_.

His dad had had one, too.

“You came back,” he mumbled.

“Yes.” Tight. Inflectionless.

Shame added its own prickle to his skin. “I’ll do better.”

“Yes,” Bruce repeated, and Tim could imagine the Bat-Glare without opening his eyes. That was a Robin’s lot in life. Live by the Glare, die by the Glare.

There was a long silence. The brutal heat turned to a refuge as the sweatless prickle became a violent shiver. Warmth he had just recoiled from now left him desperate for more. “Please don’t,” Tim began hoarsely, and he hadn’t meant to speak but now he had. “I m-messed up. Please don’t… d-don’t leave.”

The crunch of Bruce’s step faltered, stopped.

 _Oh no._ He shouldn’t have said anything, should have just shut up because nothing was actually stopping Bruce from dropping Tim, taking back the coat and...

The cradling hold tightened. “Tim. Look at me.”

He didn’t want to. But when Batman gave you an order, you followed it. Unless you wanted to get stranded in the middle of nowhere and maybe freeze to death. Tim squinted up.

The expected glare was in place, but soft around the edges, directionless. Worried. “I meant that I believe in your ability to improve. _Not_ that I’ll punish you by leaving.”

Tim’s sight blurred. “But…”

Bruce’s voice took on a sharp growl. “I was _waylaid._ Justice League business. Someone thought it was a good idea to transport me without notice.” More softly, he added, “I was back as soon as I could,” and Tim realized that the Glare wasn’t meant for him at all.

A hot tear rolled down Tim’s cheek, and he buried his face in Bruce’s shirt. It didn’t do much to hide the hard sniffle that jerked out of him. He was too old for this, had been for as long as he could remember. Even Mom would be looking at him askance about now, and later she would disdainfully say, _we don’t want to have another_ breakdown, _do we?_

Failure to control himself was one of the highest offenses he could commit, and here he was crying all over the man with the weight of a whole city on his shoulders, the burden of a lost son, and he didn’t need Tim’s crap loaded on him too. Batman needed a Robin. And he _was_ a Robin.

“Sorry,” he choked out. It was pathetic, because he was pathetic. This was pathetic.

The arm under his shoulders shifted, and for a split second new terror shot through him. _Don’t leave me._

But a coarse hand pressed his head close against Bruce’s chest, where Tim could hear the thump of his heart and the warm rumble of his next words. “I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you. Understand?”

Tim swallowed wetly and tried to nod, holding his breath to stifle the tears, control the trembling. Then he felt the kiss planted in his hair, the jawline resting against his temple.

“I was going to ask if you want to make it official.”

After a shocked moment of blinking at the subtle smile, Tim nodded quickly.

And then his control collapsed completely.

He sobbed into the soft flannel, expecting at any second to find that Bruce had come to his senses about giving Tim his name. But he just kept walking, murmuring undeserved kindnesses like _you’re safe,_ and _almost there,_ and _I packed your favorite coffee._

Warm assurances like _tomorrow, we’ll go back to see those fox kits._

**Author's Note:**

> I reject your canon, and substitute my own.


End file.
